The strangest experience I ever had involved my grandmother giving birth to our first child. I remember only parts of it. I remember the sexuality of it.  The danger and the sort of break that happened when I saw it crawl free. 

	She was nine months in and I foolishly thought the baby would come any day.  Thought that at any moment she would call me in a panic rather than with her domineering tone. All of the shows I had watched told me the same thing.  She would drench whatever she sat in. Followed by us hobbling to the doctor room.   I had no idea how I was supposed to be all the dozen or so men on the screen. I had barely become comfortable holding the ultrasound or her toys. 

	I never understood that a woman could be like my grandmother.  Could relish in having another human trapped inside her body.  I learned that she quivered at the idea.   From her first pregnancy at age twelve.  Forced to carry twins to term, confined to a wheelchair for the last of it.   She had become addicted to the sudden and rapid mutation of her body.  The rapid weight gain. The bodily discomfort and the feeling of something’s beating heart and her body sustaining that thing. She told me the first, best orgasm of her life came from a doctor reaching his glove fingers inside, rotating the baby. 

	It was for this reason she came to work at a sperm bank. A model employee who seemed very, very eager to learn the business.  Left alone some nights she was paralyzed by choice. So many possible males to choose from.  She told me she would “concoct” a baby. Pouring whatever males she found interesting into her.  She would leave herself like that for a few days. Ensuring something would take root. 

	She told me she was found out but that all it took was regular blowjobs to keep her boss quiet. During these though she would stealthy spit his seed into her hand. Massaging his diluted sperm into her.  For as long of a shot as it was.  This too resulted in pregnancy. 

	She had a talent for getting pregnant. She had a talent for blackmail.   This comprised the majority of her working years. I don’t think she kept touch with any of them as per the agreements she made. She was happy to take all that money and buy herself a secluded property to live in. 

	She had experimented with feral animals of all kinds.   Letting anything that could mount her shove her fat body over a barrel. Drench her ovaries in strange and exotic semen. When she finally found a horse she could breed with the child would’ve killed her.   It was late in that pregnancy when they cut her open. Unable to save the fetus. The wild discolorations around her abdomen that I had always taken for age now made sense.  That hard knotted flesh where stitches were sewn. One more bit of the destruction a lifetime of pregnancies can cause to a body.

	For her it was the ideal form.  Hips struck wide by massive pregnancies.  Breasts that could fill up with enough milk for all her children. A vagina that had been brutally loosened so often it drooped down in total defeat. 

	I pushed my face closer. The wide, shallow curve of her pregnant belly always threatening.  Hanging like a fleshy iron safe full of treasures.  She loved to turn quickly. I would hear the second and a half of slosh as the baby was forced to inherit her mother’s momentum.  She used to do it more until she caused a tear in the umbilical cord. It caused the fetus to panic. Her hand pressed to the wall and her fat, engorged pussy lips started to quiver and shake.  

	“Go get my wand.” She said.  I brought her wand and a small TV tray. She sat down on the toilet. Her thighs folding along the side. She leaned forward just as I opened the TV tray. The huge belly resting on it. I handed her her wand. Then crawled into my assigned position.  Always paranoid that the  TV tray would break and she would crush me.  

	I have been eating pussy for the better part of my life now. But even then I had learned how to kiss it. Where to dig my tongue in. I never stayed too long anywhere. Always pecking and sucking in different ways. Above the table she had her own game.  Chasing the fetus around with the wand at full power.  Sometimes in its panic it would shove against her walls.  She forced her cries of pain into moans. More than just a kick. It was thrashing against a cell.  A small rip along her insides added the metallic taste of blood to her soaked cunt and its layers of thick pubic fur. 

	She had started to pee without telling me. It had happened enough that by that time it wasn’t anything that bothered me.  It was just one way out of hundreds that she used to control me. I kept performing, kept up with my tongue until finally she was satisfied.  I don’t know if a fetus can cry.  As I escorted my grandmother to the bedroom there was a panicked shivering that caused her belly to vibrate.  How do you treat PTSD in the womb?

	By the eleventh month I finally understood.  The creams she had been applying. Drugs. Even injections into the amniotic fluid. All of it prevented her muscles from initiating the purge of the child.  Its instincts had begun to betray it.  The womb now became a claustrophobic cell for it to fight against.  Particularly when whatever objects my grandmother used would invade it’s space and taunt it.  To disturb its restful growth.    I genuinely wondered then if she could force a person to live their entire life inside her meaty womb.  I think if I had told her that she would’ve orgasmed with just a thought.

	There’s no book that covers the fourth trimester of pregnancy. When the gravid belly has far more say over center of gravity. Nothing in the shows I watched told me how her stretch marks would start to bloom wider like a chasm.  How it would cause a person to sometimes be “unable to communicate” because of their emotions.  

	I don’t know if there’s such a thing as estrogen poisoning.  But by the 11th month she had started to slip.   She would sleep for sixteen hours then stay up for twenty. We had rearranged the house so she could always grip something to balance. To distribute the weight that her legs could barely shuffle around. I had dreams about it falling off of her, Like the broken half of a battleship. Hitting the floor with all its mass and letting out a squishy thump. 

I helped her into the doctor’s room and performed the usual procedures.  The ultra-sound’s display glided over that cramped, bundled up body.  Its head tilted down. The last two months of growth had given it strength and size beyond a normal fetus. Another week and my grandmother would likely have had no say in when or where the child would be freed through her birth canal.